


Of Silly Consulting Detectives and Competent Ex-Army Doctors VI

by days_of_storm



Series: Of Silly Consulting Detectives and Competent Ex-Army Doctors [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Hair Kink, M/M, coming to terms, dealing with age, they get older but do they really get wiser?, two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 14:25:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17603039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: It's that time of the year again...happy birthday, Verity! <3





	Of Silly Consulting Detectives and Competent Ex-Army Doctors VI

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verityburns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verityburns/gifts).



> It's that time of the year again...  
> happy birthday, Verity! <3

It had been exactly one year since John had cut Sherlock’s hair and John had lost his heart all over again to a long-haired, pony-tailed Sherlock. He had been secretly hoping that Sherlock might grow his hair out again, and more than once he had lingered in front of the fireplace and fiddled with the ribbon he had used to bind his hair, hoping that Sherlock would interpret his action correctly. Yet while Sherlock had certainly noticed, he hadn’t broached the subject. 

So when John found Sherlock in the bathroom one day, pulling at his hair with both hands while frowning deeply at his reflection, he wondered whether Sherlock was contemplating a new hairstyle after all.

“Hey,” he nudged his shoulder with his nose and then kissed him just below his left ear. 

Sherlock’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes grew softer. “I’m going grey,” he announced after a moment. 

“You’re not!” John took a step back to look at his hair. “Let go,” he said as he gently pulled Sherlock’s hands out of his hair. 

“I am,” Sherlock unhelpfully pointed at all of his hair.

John sighed and pushed some curls out of the way to be able to look at the roots of Sherlock’s hair. There wasn’t a hint of lighter shades. “Come into the light.”

It was obvious that Sherlock wanted to say something along the lines of “but I am in the light,” but when John took his hand and led him into the bedroom, he didn’t say anything after all. 

“Sit,” John said and gave him a gentle push when Sherlock came to stand in front of the bed. Sherlock sat dutifully, looking up at John. 

“Right,” John pulled the curtains open and opened the window, letting in cold air. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind for now, but John knew he would. It was freezing outside after all. 

Then he nudged Sherlock’s legs apart and stood between them, pushing his hands into Sherlock’s hair. He smiled when he heard Sherlock’s breath hitch. “Hmm,” he hummed as he carted his fingers through his hair. “I don’t see any grey.”

“I did.” Sherlock sounded stubborn. And turned on. 

John grinned and pushed a little bit closer, closing his wrist around luscious curls. When he pulled, Sherlock moaned loudly, and John tipped his head up to be able to see his expression. Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed and he did look like he was about to beg for sex. 

“Are you lying to me?”

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock breathed, his blush growing a shade darker. 

John licked his lips. “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind you going grey, though. People’d finally recognise your wisdom.”

Sherlock huffed. “Wisdom?”

“Well, yes. Also, Greg’s been grey for some time and he looks …”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed. “Don’t talk about him!”

“Why not? He’s quite attractive and …”

Sherlock’s hands came up and he covered John’s mouth with one while the other fisted at his shirt. “Don’t!”

John grinned against Sherlock’s palm. He couldn’t believe that after all these years, Sherlock was still jealous whenever John mentioned that he found other people attractive. And it wasn’t even that he fancied Greg Lestrade in any way. But, somehow, he was the one that Sherlock got most upset about and therefore he referred to him whenever he wanted to rile Sherlock up. 

“Okay,” John said quietly, pressing closer. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said almost against his stomach. 

“You know, I could check for grey hair while you …” before he could finish, Sherlock’s hands were already unbuckling John’s trousers. 

John grinned and gently petted Sherlock’s shoulders. “Wait!” he said when Sherlock had pushed his trousers down to his knees. 

“The window?” Sherlock asked without taking his eyes off John’s erection. 

John chuckled. “No. But also, yes. The window, too. But …”

He tipped Sherlock’s head up again and leaned down, kissing him gently. “I needed to do that first,” he smiled against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock swallowed audibly when John pulled back. 

He awkwardly shuffled to the window and closed it, but left the curtains open. Then he stepped out of his trousers entirely and returned to the bed. “Now,” he smirked. “Where exactly did you see grey hair?”

Sherlock’s hand came up to point at his right temple and John stepped closer again. “Is it a problem for you?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed, John’s cock a mere breath away from his lips. 

“If you’d get grey hair. Would that be a problem for you?”

“Well,” Sherlock licked once along his length and John chuckled. “It does mean I’m getting old.”

“No, it doesn’t,” John shook his head and began to carefully separate strands of Sherlock’s hair, tracing each curl with a finger. And then, nestled in between dark hair, he found a thin silver streak. He immediately loved it. 

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“You stopped moving.”

“I just fantasised about you being all silver and beautiful.”

“Oh god.”

“You’ll be beautiful,” John ran his finger along the grey line. 

“Pull them out.”

“No!” John stepped back and out of Sherlock’s reach. His erection was flagging. 

“But John!” he almost whined. Only that Sherlock Holmes didn’t whine. But this was as close as it got. 

“No. You are going to sit here and let me play with your hair and then I’ll let you fuck me if that is what you want, but I won’t pull out your hair.”

“You cut it.”

“That is not the same.”

Sherlock’s expression grew a few grades more petulant. “Why not?”

“I can’t answer that question,” John admitted. “But I don’t want to do that. I like it. And I know you can do whatever the hell it is you want to do to your hair, but I would prefer if you’d allow it to go grey. It’ll take years anyway, but …”

Sherlock dropped down on the bed, his hands flying up to his hair again. “ _Mycroft_ isn’t grey.”

“Mycroft is ginger,” John noted. 

“Still, he’s seven years older than me.”

“He might be dyeing his hair.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. There’s also very little of it. And, Sherlock, this is your hair. And it’s fucking beautiful no matter what colour.”

Sherlock stopped moving and looked at him quietly. The frown was still there, but at least he seemed to reconsider his position. 

“I’m also grey, and I haven’t shaved my head,” John tried.

“You’re not grey,” Sherlock protested, sitting up. “Your hair just got a little lighter, that’s all.”

John actually laughed and took his shirt off. For a moment, Sherlock was genuinely confused. Then he seemed to accept that this was where things were going and begun taking off his pyjamas as well. 

“I used to have darker, blond hair, Sherlock,” he explained as he pulled off his socks. “But life with you … well …”

“Are you blaming me for going grey?”

“I thought I wasn’t grey?”

“I never … I never thought about it.”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, you observe every little detail. And yet, when it comes to the obvious, you are sometimes so …”

“Piss off,” Sherlock slapped his arse soundly. John laughed and climbed onto the bed and on top of Sherlock. “My hair has been growing lighter for years, Sherlock. It’s a thing that happens. At least we’re not going bald.”

“Oh my god.” Sherlock stared up at him in horror. 

“I’d still find you stupidly attractive,” John admitted, nipping at his chin. 

“Thank you.”

“So, how about we go back to …”

“But you found it.”

“That’s not why I …”

“Can we … skip the foreplay?”

“Umm. Sure.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

Sherlock squinted at him as if he was waiting for him to say something contradictory. When John just smiled sweetly at him, he pushed John off and rolled onto his stomach, rummaging in the night stand for a condom and lube. 

Years of practice meant that Sherlock could keep the preparation time to a minimum, knowing exactly how far he could go without hurting John. And John lay back and let Sherlock do all the work for him and when he pushed inside and held him close and kissed him slowly and deeply, John allowed himself to think about why he really loved that small streak of silver in Sherlock’s hair. And once he had allowed himself to go there, it was difficult to think about anything else. 

When he came, holding Sherlock close, he wasn’t surprised by the tears that followed. Sherlock was gasping against his neck, though, and did not notice until he had come, too. 

“What’s wrong, John?” he asked, still inside of him, but growing soft. John simply smiled and kissed him. “Nothing,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Sherlock pulled out and shuddered and John waited until he had gotten rid of the condom before he pulled him close and squeezed his arse. Sherlock made a small sound that John could feel in his groin. 

“What’s nothing wrong, then?” Sherlock finally asked, and John could tell from his pained expression that even asking a question of such doubtful grammar was a challenge for him. He smiled and kissed him again. 

“Remember the first day we spent together?”

“Together? Or together together?”

John giggled. “You have a way with words today …”

“John. Explain, please.”

“The first day here, in this flat. The first case I was involved in.”

“The cabbie.”

“Yes.”

“You killed him for me.”

“I did.”

“And you saved my life.”

“Because you wanted to swallow that fucking pill.”

“I was an idiot.”

“Yes, you were.”

“That is not why you cried, is it?”

“Well, it is. Partly. I just … I never thought you’d live to see the day your hair would turn grey.”

Sherlock went completely still, his eyes wide. John looked back at him, eternally grateful that all of those moments in which Sherlock’s life had been in danger had turned out to be one more chance for him to walk away and live. And go grey.

“Seeing your hair actually go grey … it’s … it’s special.”

“I’m …”

“Don’t apologise, please don’t.”

“I know I sometimes underestimate the danger …”

“Often.”

“Often, yes. Not always, though.”

“No. Not always.”

“And, usually, you are there to talk some sense into me or save me and …” he stopped speaking, watching John’s face. The tears were back and John wanted to wipe them away but he also wanted Sherlock to see them. 

“I’m just grateful,” he finally said. “That’s all.”

Sherlock took a shuddering breath before he pulled John into his arms and held him for a very long time. It had been a while since they had simply lain in bed, holding each other, and John loved every second of it. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock finally said, his voice still thick with emotion. “You’re right. Sometimes I don’t see what’s right in front of me.”

John kissed his chin and looked up at his face. “You really didn’t notice I was going grey?”

Sherlock shrugged. “You were going lighter, yes, but … well, I … I mean. It’s not like I don’t pay attention to your hair, but after a while I … I see you, you know? Not … details. I mean, some details,” he smirked and squeezed his arse. “But some things are just … you. And your hair seems to be one of those things.”

“I completely understand. It’s like taking the same route to work every day. Even the prettiest houses eventually become a mere back drop. You’d notice if something changed drastically, but you’re so used to it that you stop actually seeing it.”

“I always thought I wasn’t like that.”

“The flat, though. Do you remember every detail of the living room?”

Sherlock sighed. “I do. But I make a point at paying attention in the flat. I need to know if something’s different. And I do notice when you shave or when you had your hair cut, but …”

“Not growing old?”

“You’re not old,” Sherlock protested and John chuckled. 

“We’re not the men we used to be.”

“Well, obviously …”

“You were so fucking pretty when I met you.”

Sherlock’s left eyebrow rose but he said nothing. 

“You still are, to be fair, but … you know … you were just … flawless, in a way. Untouchable. Too thin, though. And much too arrogant.” John grinned and nipped at his ear lobe. “And I love what you became. Every line in your face and the edges that you grew into. How you became you. The man you were supposed to be.”

“How do you know who I was supposed to be?”

“Because you are exactly that, right now.”

“But you are annoyed by a lot of the things I do and …”

“Not the same,” John shook his head. “These things are not who you are.”

“The scars?” Sherlock swallowed and John kissed him deeply. 

“Those,” he pulled up his hand from which two white lines ran along his wrist and forearm. Two of many other scars. He liked to remember Sherlock being covered in powdered paint rather than sliced open by a knife. “I would prefer not to be part of you, but they are part of you nevertheless.”

“When did you get so wise?”

John pointed at his own hair and giggled. “When I grew grey.”

Sherlock laughed and pulled him close again. They slept for a bit and then took a shower and spent the evening going through photos of their first few years together. Years, when they weren’t yet together, John mused. He regretted not realising his feelings sooner, but, in the end, he had spent those years by Sherlock’s side anyway and he had gotten to know him extremely well. 

At one point, Sherlock pointed at his laptop screen. “Here. You’re lighter.”

He was right. John’s hair was decidedly lighter than in the photos before. He swallowed when he realised when the photo had been taken. 

When he looked at Sherlock, he could see that he had come to the same conclusion. “Fuck,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

John had never connected his own going grey with Sherlock’s death. Well, supposed death. He’d had grey batches before, but had still been mostly blond. After Sherlock’s return, there was almost no blond left on his head. 

“It’s history,” he finally said, taking Sherlock’s hand and clasping it tightly. “Much more interesting to see how you’ll progress.”

Sherlock looked slightly ill. “Well, I guess I …”

“If you are going to say that you weren’t traumatised by what happened when you were gone, I will punch you on the nose.”

“You would never!” Sherlock said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. John was incredibly relieved. He had not been prepared for the emotional rollercoaster of the evening and he definitely did not want Sherlock to go back to feeling guilty for his past. Not when it had been so hard to move on from it. 

“You’re right,” he said belatedly, kissing him carefully. “Let me do one thing, though.”

Sherlock sat quietly, waiting for whatever John wanted to do. John smiled and pulled Sherlock’s head down and searched until he found the strand of silver. He separated one single hair from it and pulled.

Sherlock yelped, but John kissed his temple to make up for the pain and then leaned back. “Souvenir,” he announced, smiling up at Sherlock. 

“What are you going to do with it?”

John considered the single hair on the palm of his hand for a moment, then he closed his fist to keep it safe and got up. He pulled his wallet out of his coat and flipped it open. Inside, hidden from immediate sight, he had several photographs of Sherlock, held together by a plastic sleeve. He pulled the photos out and looked through his stack, trying not to blush at Sherlock’s silent astonishment. When he came to one of the photos he had taken of Sherlock a year ago, which showed him and his ponytail from the side, he put the photo on top of the stack and carefully placed the hair on it before pushing it back into its sleeve. The silver strand stood out clearly in contrast to Sherlock’s dark hair on the photo. He pushed the sleeve back into the walled. 

“I did not know about the photos.”

“I get lonely sometimes.”

“At work.”

“Hmm.”

“Do you … touch yourself when you look at them?” John knew he wanted to sound nonchalant, but he couldn’t hide the tremor in his voice.

John chuckled. “Not really. These are more important for my soul and peace of mind.”

Sherlock looked at him again. “You astonish me.”

John smiled and dropped the wallet on the table before he leaned against Sherlock who immediately wrapped his arms around him. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For making the prospect of going grey less … daunting.”

John chuckled. “I can’t wait to see how you look all grey. And by god you’ll have to grow it out again when you do.”

Sherlock sighed and kissed the top of John’s head. “I promise.”

“And I promise that you won’t regret it then.” John smiled and turned his head to be able to kiss Sherlock on the lips.


End file.
